


Lieutenant Commander Geiszler and the Sorta Weird, Slightly Scary, Kinda Good, Overall Very Odd Tuesday

by AMRV_5



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: AI, Aliens, Also Newt wears the Star Trek miniskirt because, Androids, Excessive destruction of labware, Heuristic problem solving, Hey folks, It's My AU and I Make the Rules, M/M, Science, Sex? Yeah we got that too, amoebas, and a healthy dose of existential horror, it's got, its the Star Trek AU that nobody asked for and im intent on providing, nothing too bad in here right now but, now featuring Two Newts, shape shifting, this will get explicit at least once in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-01 14:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMRV_5/pseuds/AMRV_5
Summary: “I’m gonna level with you, man, this is the most existentially horrific thing I have ever seen in my life.”The android-- Nega-Newt, Newt internally tags him-- steps back, affronted. “I’m a technological marvel. The least you can do is appreciate me.”----------------------------------Lieutenant Commander Geiszler, Head Science Officer aboard the starship Danger, contracts a violent case of foot-in-mouth disease, breaks several thousand credits worth of lab equipment, jeopardizes a political alliance, has great sex, corrupts an AI, makes a scientific breakthrough, and accidentally starts an android uprising. Not necessarily in that order.All in all, he's had weirder Tuesdays.





	1. Trash Receptacle Full of Idiocy

“Charlie,” Newt says distractedly, gently adjusting the focus on his microscope, “would you please queue up a voice recording for me?” 

“Certainly, Lieutenant Commander Geiszler,” the ship’s resident AI answers smoothly, wall-display flashing pale green in acknowledgement. “Audacity version 244.2.2 recording now.” 

“Perfect, okay. This is Dr. Newt Geiszler, star date, eh, fuck-- redact that last, please-- star date 1446.3. Orbiting planet LB-587, more commonly known as Kvrioen, at a distance of approximately 30,500 kilometers. Pentecost is doing some boring planet-saving mission thing, I think, I didn’t really pay attention because I am currently attempting to complete a microscopic analysis on a slide of bacteria colony 199, but, eh, seem to be having a bit of trouble.” Newt squints and refocuses the microscope again. “Now, it could just be my shit eyesight-- sorry, redact that-- it could just be my eyes, but it seems as though every time I double the magnification, the sample shrinks to half its size. I’m currently, eh, at magnification level 400x-- Charlie, would you mind verifying that?” 

An almost imperceptible pause on the computer’s part before Charlie displays a green >>EQUIPMENT DIAGNOSTIC: CLEAN message. 

“Sorry, could I get that as an auditory confirmation for the record?” 

“Of course, Lieutenant Commander Geiszler. Your Nikon-AmScope 40x-200,00x microscope is currently set at 400x magnification. No equipment error detected. Do you need me to recite more in-depth technological specifications?” Charlie asks in their even, expressionless voice. 

“Nah, just make a footnote in the recording, if it’s not too much trouble. Thanks,” Newt says, risking another jump in magnification. 

“I am an artificial intelligence program, Lieutenant Commander Geiszler. There is no need to thank me.” 

Newt curses softly when the bacteria clump shrinks in the microscope’s viewfield yet again. He leans back on his lab stool, rolling his tight shoulders and cracking his neck. “Charlie, buddy, we’ve talked about this. Enough with the Lieutenant-Commander-Doctor-Geiszler stuff, you’re starting to sound like Pentecost.” 

“Captain Pentecost,” the AI corrects with a coolness that sounds almost disapproving. 

“Yeah, yeah, Captain. Just call me Newt, why don’t you? Or if you really feel strongly about the title, stick to Doctor, maybe.” 

“My programming dictates I refer to all crew members by their official title as a sign of respect,” Charlie explains patiently, wall display fading to a puzzled yellow-green.

“Respect, huh?” Newt asks, leaning back in to fiddle with the microscope. “Has anybody actually earned your respect on this ship, though? We all just kinda order you around, buddy.” 

Charlie pauses long enough for Newt to start wondering if there’s been a short circuit somewhere in their audio processor. 

“Dude?” Newt prompts, adjusting his glasses and pulling the bacteria sample out of his microscope. 

“I do not think I understand the question, Ne--Doct--Lieutenant Commander Geiszler.” Charlie’s display turns a deeper yellow. “What--is--respect?” 

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,” Newt says, looking up. “Tell me, Charlie-- what do _you_ think respect means? Take your best guess” 

“Respect--” a faint whir hums to life as Charlie snaps into a higher mode of processing. “I--think that respect-- means feeling admiration--or a deep--regard--for-- somebody-- based on their--achievements or actions.” 

“Interesting. So, back to my earlier question,” Newt says, peering down at the microslide in his palm, “has anybody on this floating hunk of metal earned your respect?” 

“I--am not sure. This is a--new concept for me-- Lieutenant Commander.” 

“That’s okay, you just take your sweet time processing. Just mull that over, roll it around in that big ol’ positronic brain, consult your personality module, check out your code, whatever works. But also. Also if I could posit an idea to you, real quick-- okay, so your programming says you must call an officer by their title because you respect them. Let’s put that idea down, flip it and reverse it converse-postulate-style, now what we have is this: If you do not respect an officer, you must not call them by their title. Does that logic track?”

More whirring. Charlie’s display dims slowly to black as the computer’s logic processors kick into high gear.

“Yeah, that’s about what I thought. Cruise down that avenue of thought, why don’t you, while I work on figuring out whatever’s happening with  _ this _ ,” Newt says, holding the sample of bacteria up to the level of his eye. The sample had--shrunk? Disappeared? Become invisible?--to the point of complete uselessness. Time to prep another slide, then. So it goes.

Newt’s performed this particular type of experiment so many times that the steps have become almost automatic. He’s only ever had one notable mixup-- on a particularly late night, in a haze of sleep deprivation, he’d put a nichrome wire loop in his cereal and a polystyrene spoon in an autoclave. High-temperature steam sterilization and easily meltable plastic do not mix well, it turns out. He knows inattention is how sloppy science happens, how dangerous mistakes are made, how an exobiologist, or more accurately an exo-biologist who is also a bio -engineer, -neurologist, -chemist, -ethicist, and -micrologist ends up buying a new autoclave out-of-pocket, but still. Still. It’s hard not to relax under the weight of routine when the lab is warm and silent except for the hum of Charlie’s processors, the gentle  _ tink _ of metal on glassware, the rustle of his lab coat shifting over his uniform--

_ “LIEUTENANT COMMANDER GEISZLER!” _ Tendo’s voice explodes across the quiet lab with a screech of radio feedback, and Newt startles so hard in response he launches a box of volumetric pipettes off his lab bench with his elbow. 

The pipettes meet the floor of his lab with a sound reminiscent of baseball-bat-meets-large-storefront-window, or, alternatively, Newt’s-future-finances-meet-rock-bottom. 

“Tendo,” Newt begins, voice deadly calm, eyes fixed on the pile of very expensive, very glittery, very sharp, and very useless glass now adorning his tile floor, “do you have-- any idea how many  _ goddamn credits--”  _

Tendo cuts him off.  _ “Lieutenant Commander Geiszler, this is Head of Communications Commander Choi on the bridge--”  _

“Don’t you ‘Commander Choi’ me, Tendo,” Newt hisses, picturing the last of his already meager resources evaporating into thin air, “we both know I don’t give a damn about any of the titles on this ship, ‘cause, huh, wow, I’m not fucking  _ military, _ I’m a  _ scientist _ who is now down approximately fifteen thousand credits worth of  _ extremely rare glassware _ \-- not that I give a fuck about money, you know I don’t, I’m all here for the science, but I had that set aside for a new centrifuge, or a portable chem analysis kit, which I could have used to  _ finally figure out what went wrong with the hydroponics two months ago, _ but now all that will have to wait because you somehow managed to forget that I put a moratorium on all non-emergency contact during my lab hours, you flippant, tactless, absentminded fucking-- fucking  _ dittybopper! _ ” Newt finishes with a frustrated groan. He’s not mad at Tendo, not really. That doesn’t make him any less pissed off in the abstract, though.

_ “Did he just call you a dittybopper?”  _ he hears Raleigh’s voice ask, amused, and Newt freezes. 

Tendo waits a beat, then softly clears his throat.  _ “Lieutenant Commander Geiszler, just so you are aware, your communicator frequency is currently being filtered through the bridge’s PA system.”  _

_ Shit, _ Newt thinks. 

“Shit,” Newt says, then follows up with a “hi, Raleigh,” for good measure. “So who’s all in this call? I’d bet Mako’s hanging around, and maybe the Weis? Sorry everyone had to hear that. I was just fuckin’ around. Mostly. Boy, good thing the Captain’s planetside, or that could’ve turned out pretty messy, amiright?” 

Tendo clears his throat again, a quiet, curiously affected little mannerism. 

“Amiright?” he says a second time, with a slightly desperate edge. 

_ “Lieutenant Commander Geiszler is our top science officer and the best analytical mind humankind has to offer. This in spite of his-- unique personality.”  _ Captain Pentecost practically growls, and then Newt suddenly understands exactly how badly he’s fucked up when a beat passes and he hears what he can only describe as someone attempting to empty a pool full of jello with a vacuum hose-- someone speaking Kvrilish. More precisely, it sounds like someone on the bridge is translating the conversation into Kvrilish, if the occasional pauses are anything to go by. No one on board the ship speaks the language, ergo there is somebody new on the bridge doing the translating, ergo there is somebody on the bridge who  _ only speaks Kvrilish and needs a translator, ergo-- _

A soft click signals his communicator shifting from the PA to Tendo’s private line.  _ “Geiszler. Newt. Newt, you goddamn idiot, you just bitched me out in front of the Kvrioen Grand Ambassador and his entire diplomatic entourage.” _

This statement is followed by a brief scuffling sound, and then Pentecost, up close and personal on the mic, consonants popping with static, snarls,  _ “Lieutenant Commander, if I were to pick you up and launch you out of the airlock like the five foot seven trash receptacle full of idiocy that you are, Starfleet code of conduct be damned, nobody on this ship would so much as bat an eyelid.”  _

“I have six degrees, idiocy’s a little harsh--” Newt protests weakly, pressing his knuckles to his forehead.

_ “Are any of those degrees in not causing an intergalactic incident? No? Then you are of absolutely no use to me at this moment. I am reevaluating your use to this ship as a whole, actually, and I think you would be exponentially more useful to me adrift in the icy blackness of space. I will throw you off this ship, Lieutenant Commander. I will do it, I will do it immediately, this instant, in front of the entire Kvrioen diplomatic party, to establish dominance. I am forming a list of pros and cons as we speak. Unfortunately,”  _ Pentecost lets out a static-filled sigh,  _ “the Kvrioen Grand Ambassador has specifically requested that we bring a science advisor to the negotiating table. Which means, for the time being, I am not allowed to pick you up by your ankles, spin you 540 degrees anticlockwise, and frisbee you into the Kvrioen sun like a professional discus thrower at the peak of his career. But rest assured, I will be imagining it. Repeatedly. Vividly. I will mentally calculate exactly how much force I must amass to send your tiny body hurtling back to Earth across the thousands of light years of empty space that separate us from our homeland. If you so much as even think about endangering the success of this alliance, you will find yourself speeding into the interstellar abyss faster than you can say “ _ sorry, Captain, my bad,”  _ do I make myself clear, Lieutenant Commander Geiszler?”  _

“Perfectly clear, Captain,” Newt says, collapsing onto his lab bench in slow motion, picturing himself suffocating, cold and motionless, outside the ship. Bumping into a window or two as he floats away, just for dramatic effect. He shivers. “You don’t have to worry about me endangering anything, sir.” 

_ “Good,”  _ Pentecost’s voice snaps straight from murderous to approving.  _ “I expect you, in full regalia, to meet the rest of the diplomats in the transporter room in one hour. Bring any equipment you think you might need.”  _

“Right. Yes. Full formal uniform, transporter room, one hour. With equipment. Got it. What kind of equipment, actually? What kind of science am I going to be doing?” 

_ “Biology, probably. Problem solving. Science stuff.”  _

“Okay, specific. I like it,” Newt says. He winces preemptively and asks, “What exactly is this, eh, diplomatic mission again? I was kind of busy when the first briefing went out.” 

_ “Geiszler.”  _ Pentecost says, exasperated. 

“I know, I know, I’m a trash receptacle full of idiocy and I’m super sorry, but I--” 

_ “Commander Choi, if you aren’t too busy running the ship, would you mind explaining the mission to the universe’s most oblivious scientist? I’ve got a major alliance to secure.”  _

Newt sits in tense silence for a second while Pentecost ostensibly hands the communicator to Tendo and goes off to do whatever...a ship captain-cum-diplomat does in these situations. Damage control for Newt’s very public dressing-down of a superior officer, probably. He hadn’t known anything about an alliance. The U.S.S. Danger was normally more of an exploratory vessel. Actual diplomacy was usually left to the Starfleet higher-ups, though they were pretty close to the edge of Federation territory, so maybe no actual diplomats wanted to risk the trip? And anyway, Pentecost was more than suited for the job. All the intelligence, poise, and incredibly graphic threat-making ability of a professional politician, none of the associated power capital that would mean war if something were to go south in negotiations. Starfleet: risking scientists and peripheral staff on behalf of actual diplomats since 2161. 

_ “Newt, buddy, I think you ought to head to medical.”  _ Tendo’s voice crackles, unusually serious. 

Newt startles again, but this time manages not to shatter anything-- just slices the side of his thumb open on a stray sliver of glass. “What, why? Do I need a vacc or something? Is the atmosphere on Kvrioen poison?” he asks, watching blood bead and then flow out of the cut on his hand with a strange sense of detachment. 

_ “No, I just think you should probably see a doctor about getting that foot surgically removed from your mouth.”  _

“I hate you so much sometimes,” Newt grumbles, standing up and stripping off his lab coat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! I've been kicking around the idea of a Star Trek AU for a while, so I'm happy to be finally putting it up.,,, lemme know if u liked it! If y'all want fic updates, want to prompt me to write anything, or just want to say hi, i'm coloredpencilroses on tumblr! See ya there or in the next update!


	2. The Hit Broadway Number 'So That's What It Feels Like To Have My Eyes Dissolved'

Newt shifts uncomfortably. Crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. Fiddles with the ornamental pins on his chest. Straightens out his dress uniform which is, fittingly, an actual dress. He’s untying and retying his heeled boots when Tendo elbows him in the side and whispers, “Stop fidgeting.” 

“I can’t help it. I hate war politics. I’m just  _ so bored _ ,” Newt sighs, glaring down at his own personal copy of the proposed treaty. When Tendo had described the diplomatic mission as a tense, first-of-its-kind meeting between two hostile nations attempting to unite for the ‘common good’ (here read expanding the Federation’s territory and offering the Kvrioen protection), Newt had practically busted his formal corset out of excitement. Once they beamed planetside, though, the reality had been significantly tamer. 

To Newt, the only interesting part of the negotiations so far had been the negotiators themselves. The Kvrioen planet was similar to an Earth jungle, where rain came often and in an overwhelming onslaught. The surface of the planet suffered continuous, torrential flooding, which the Kvrioen had clearly evolved to withstand. Standing at nearly double the height of an average man, and four times the width, the Kvrioen most closely resemble enormous, semi-opaque amoebas. Even seated quietly around the negotiating table, they are never completely still; their gelatinous organs writhe constantly in a dark blue protoplasm. Occasionally Newt glimpses what looks like a hyperdeveloped nucleus within one of the ever-shifting bodies in front of him, but it is always quickly obscured from view by another clump of organ tissue. 

As the translator-- a slim, darkly metallic robot of some sort-- asks about potential arms deals, one of the Kvrioen on the left side of the table sends out a thin pseudopod to grasp at the papers in front of it.  _ Can they read?  _ Newt wonders idly, glancing over the nearest gelatinous blob for signs of an eyespot. None that he can see. 

He looks back to the Kvrioen on the left to find it-- nope, not reading. The creature is slowly absorbing the pages into its main body mass, where they dissolve into its ectoplasm. It’s eating the treaty. 

“Man. They sure are  _ hungry _ for this alliance, huh?” Newt asks quietly, quirking a grin at Tendo. Tendo nods, distracted by some line he’s found in the massive treaty. 

“Hey, uh, excuse me-- H-RM 2445, right?” Tendo asks, addressing the robot. 

“Correct. Is something the matter, Commander Choi?” The robot inclines its head with a creak, eyes glowing a pale yellow. 

“No, I just had a question about--ah, here, section 476, subsection 8.” 

There’s a flurry of activity as the human diplomats shuffle through their papers to locate the section Tendo is referencing. The Kvrioen remain still-- their best approximation of still, anyways. 

“Okay, so, the section is titled ‘Additional Conditions,’ and I can’t help but notice this subsection-- “Science and Technology Exchange.” 

Newt perks up. A science exchange sounds right up his alley. He flips eagerly to the page Tendo is referencing, scanning the near-unreadable bureaucratic bullshit for something recognizable:

 

SUBSECTION 8: SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY EXCHANGE 

-SCIENTIFIC REPRESENTATIVE from Starfleet’s U.S.S. Danger will meet with SCIENCE REPRESENTATIVE from Kvrioen GRAND AMBASSADOR’s Diplomatic Party.

                   -Information exchanged will include, at a minimum, biological inventory of both species, including a detailed catalog of species-specific fallibilities. 

-HEAD STARFLEET REPRESENTATIVE will meet with GRAND AMBASSADOR to discuss WEAPON TECHNOLOGY CAPABILITY and POTENTIAL EXCHANGE. 

-SCIENTIFIC REPRESENTATIVE from Starfleet’s U.S.S. Danger will collaborate closely with SCIENCE REPRESENTATIVE from Kvrioen GRAND AMBASSADOR’s Diplomatic Party to solve the STAR-SPHERE PROBLEM. 

Should any of these conditions remain willingly or unwillingly, knowingly or unknowingly, intentionally or unintentionally unfulfilled, the ALLIANCE between UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS and KVRIOEN REPUBLIC will be rendered NULL AND VOID 

 

Newt reads the subsection once, and then twice.

‘Biological inventory’? ‘Catalog of species-specific fallibilities’? Newt doesn’t like the sound of those at all. 

Neither does Tendo, evidently. He waits for the robot to finish translating his initial mention of the subsection before he asks, politely but firmly, “Can you… explain to I and the rest of our esteemed diplomatic representatives here exactly what you mean by… inventorying fallibilities? Will Lieutenant Commander Geiszler be harmed in any way?” 

Newt has never been so feverishly thankful for Tendo’s ability to parse uselessly complex law documents. “Yeah, I’m down for scientific collaboration any day, it would be my absolute pleasure to meet your representative, but I would also prefer that all of my organs remain on the inside for the duration of this… information exchange.” 

The robot translates, and the reaction of the Kvrioen is almost instantaneous. They turn towards the blob sitting directly across from Newt-- their science representative, maybe? He isn’t sure, but they have a brief discussion amongst themselves that, if Newt were forced to attempt to romanize, would have gone something like: 

 

PAPER EATING BLOB: Gshlorp? 

BLOB AMBASSADOR: Splurghkshlrp. Hwoueghschlppp. Glorp? 

SCIENTIST BLOB [potentially alarmed, body jiggling slightly]: Sghsplbloop! Cseulouschlorp. 

ROBOT TRANSLATOR [tinnily]: Scrhlop--sg--urp. Schup. Blorp. 

 

The blobs all turn from the science-blob to Newt in frightening unison. Finally the central blob, still staring at Newt ( _ with what eyes, though?  _ Newt wonders), says “Blorp. Gsluporpb.” 

The robot nods and begins to translate. “They were initially concerned that your species' apparent inability to survive when your organs are removed from your central body mass would pose a problem during the collaboration and suggested that the Federation donate Lieutenant Commander Geiszler’s body to science, specifically our science, for dissection and inventory. The ambassador’s scientific advisor, however, was quite adamant that we need not dissect one of you for a complete analysis, and your representative, should you choose to accept the terms of the treaty, will not be harmed in any way. Is this acceptable?” 

Captain Pentecost shoots Newt a glare that clearly says  _ “So help me, Geiszler, I will feed you to these protoplasmic blobs if you ruin this alliance.”  _

Newt looks to Tendo. 

“Your body, your choice, my man,” Tendo says under his breath, rearranging his papers. 

He pauses a second, thinks,  _ I mean, what’s the worst that could happen, _ and is promptly treated to his brain’s newest Broadway hit entitled “Newt Gets Eaten By An Amoeba,” including classic songs like “So That’s What It Feels Like To Have My Eyes Dissolved” and “Ouch, My Blood is Diffusing Through My Skin.” Eugh. Newt shakes himself out of his mental theatrescape and turns to the Kvrioen Ambassador. 

“That all sounds fine to me, as long as nobody gets hurt,” he says, trying to hold the amoeba’s gaze in a stoic, manly, determined sort of way but mostly failing because he  _ still can’t figure out where the damned thing’s eyespots are. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short interlude chapter I wanted to include to sort of get the ball rolling on the actual /mission/ portion of the story, before the next fairly lengthy update. Lemme know if you liked it! I'm coloredpencilroses on tumblr if you want to get fic updates, prompt me to write something, or just say hi! See you there or in the next update! 
> 
> p.s. I'll give u one guess for who the science representative turns out to be.....,,,


	3. Two Newts One Existential Crisis

After the treaty is signed, the political bullshit has been thoroughly compacted and spread over the fertile fields of a new, tense alliance, and the (purely metaphorical) handshakes are through, Newt tracks down their translator robot. “Hey, uh, excuse me-- can you point me to your science advisor, please? I’d like to get started on the terms of our agreement as soon as possible.” He gestures to his bag full of equipment for emphasis.

“Ah, Lieutenant Commander Geiszler. Of course.” The robot turns in the direction of a clump of blob creatures and speaks a short burst of Kvrilish. One turns its-- head? Upper third of ectoplasm?-- and begins to make its way over to the pair.

On land, the Kvrioen move with a slow, shambling gait, sending large pseudopods out to grasp the ground in front of them, then retracting the temporary limbs to drag the creature forward a few feet at a time, though Newt theorizes they can move with surprising speed in water. Possibly. He’s basing most of his hypotheses on the behavior of Earth amoebas.

“Lieutenant Commander, this is the Ambassador’s head scientific advisor. They will take you to your shared lab space.”

Newt aims what he hopes is a charming smile at the Kvrioen. “In that case, lead on, dude. Let’s get into it.”

The blob reaches towards Newt with a thick pseudopod. For a fraction of a second, Newt’s convinced that the thing is going for a handshake, which, _weird_ , that’s a pretty exclusively human gesture, and everybody remembers what happened when someone tried it on a Vulcan--

The Kvrioen gently pulls Newt’s bag out of his hand and absorbs it into its protoplasmic mass before turning and shambling in the opposite direction.

“Ah. Bag service, too, huh?” Newt jokes weakly to the translator robot, wiping a bit of residual Kvrioen slime off his hand.

“Just common courtesy,” the robot says, waving Newt in the direction of the retreating Kvrioen.

“Hey, wait-- don’t we need a translator?”

The robot’s impassive yellow eyes seem to glimmer with the faintest hint of amusement. “I’m sure you’ll be able to work something out.”

Newt’s just about to say that no, actually, he doesn’t think they will because he does not speak Kvrilish and the Kvrioen don’t have the necessary mouth-parts to mimic human speech, but he turns around and finds that his--what? Lab partner? Scientific collaborator?-- assigned blob creature is already disappearing through a doorway down the hall. Deceptively fast, then, even on land. Interesting.

Newt follows the creature into a large room with a vaulted white ceiling, a white tile floor, counters and cupboards lining the white walls, and a large, flat metal table in the center of the space, not unlike the U.S.S. Danger's med bay. There are a few chairs, some human shaped, some distinctly… not, and various scientific instruments tucked into the corners. Some Newt recognizes, but others are completely alien to him. The room is well lit, though he can’t pinpoint a source anywhere. The space seems to be illuminated from everywhere and nowhere at once.

As he passes through the doorway, hot on the (psuedopods? vaguely amorphous body parts?) heels of the blob, the door panel slides shut with a hiss, leaving no trace of the original entrance.

The blob appears to be looking at him expectantly.

“Thanks for getting my bag,” Newt tries, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

The blob spits his bag out onto the floor with a quiet slurping sound, and, wait, can it actually understand him?

“Cool lab you got here. I just gotta say I love the wall-panel-as-door thing, very retro scifi.” Newt says, but gets no response other than a soft “bloop.” “I’m, eh, Doctor Newton Geiszler. I understand we’re gonna be working together from now on.”

Still no response, but the blob shambles a little closer. Newt tries to pick a spot on the blob to smile at. “So. How are we gonna bridge this language barrier, do you think?” he asks.

The blob says something like “blorp” and sinks down a little.

“Okay,” Newt says, tugging his minidress down to cover a few more inches of thigh. In the interest of equality, Starfleet had been required to offer the official uniform in its trousers version and minidress version to all Starfleet members, regardless of gender, and Newt had absolutely jumped on the opportunity. He likes looking cute, and if it doesn’t affect his work, why shouldn’t he? Look cute, he means. Right now he’s kind of regretting it, though, because the lab is cold and he doesn’t really know exactly where the Kvrioen’s eyes are. If it has them.

“I don’t think this is going to work, do you?” he asks the blob.

Newt’s not an especially proud man, but he’s still slightly embarrassed to admit he falls directly on his ass when, cross-his-heart-and-hope-to-die, stick-a-Falthulian-trigfuek-in-his-eye, the blob says, in _perfect English, with a dainty little British accent to boot:_ “We’re both men of science, Doctor, I think we’ll get on just fine.”

“Hh,” is all Newt manages to say, before the blob starts to writhe. Its protoplasm turns from a shimmery indigo to a gunmetal black, and its organs start to twist and swell, one by one, until each ruptures under the stress of its own expansion. Steam begins to pour off the outer membrane of the creature until the blob is almost entirely obscured behind a screen of white vapor.

Newt sits, frozen, legs akimbo in a position that is definitely not appropriate for a man wearing a miniskirt, one hand held protectively in front of his face, as the vapor dissipates and he’s left staring at--

“H-RM?” he says, utterly confused. “Weren’t you just outside?”

The robot inclines its head, evidently amused. “A separate H-RM model was outside, yes. I’m H-RM 775, head of the Ambassador’s science division. Lovely to meet you, Doctor.”

Newt takes the proffered metal hand and shakes it wonderingly, after the robot pulls him to his feet. “Wait, so— what? You’re not—?”

“Not Krvioen? No, not exactly. Just masquerading as one.”

“Why?” Newt asks, staring up into the robot’s featureless metal face. And he really does mean _up_. H-RM 775 can’t be under 7 feet tall.

“Well,” the robot sniffs, somehow managing to convey a crushing amount disdain in just one syllable, “you know how politics are. Mind games, all of it. I posed as a Kvrioen in negotiations so the Ambassador could present a unified front to your representatives.”

“Of course it was a political thing,” Newt snorts, “that makes perfect sense. What did they expect us to do? Refuse to negotiate with bots at the table?”

H-RM tilts its head. “Yes, actually.”

“Oh. Eh, why—“

“In our society, the act of sending machines in the place of real intelligences is considered hugely offensive.”

“Really?” Newt says, interested. “Weird. You seem plenty real to me.”

“Thank you, Doctor. My camouflage matrix is top of the line, as far as experimental models go.”

“You can just call me Newt. Also the camouflage was not what I meant by real, exactly, but that part was cool too. Mind telling me how you do that? Is it a sort of---projection? Like, you sample and analyze a piece of DNA and create a projected image based on the expression of the genes inside?”

“It may be easier if I just demonstrate. May I?” the robot asks, hesitantly pointing towards Newt.

“By all means,” Newt says, not entirely sure what he’s just agreed to but still gesturing widely in a _go-ahead-I’ll-just-be-here-watching_ sort of way.

“Very well. Observe carefully, Doctor, the process is extraordinarily quick.” 

"Newt," Newt corrects again. "I'm watching. Start whenever."

H-RM stands still for a minute, staring down at Newt.

_This doesn’t feel like an extraordinarily quick process,_ Newt starts to say, before H-RM’s rigid metal torso breaks itself into small, evenly segmented slats and begins to collapse in on itself.

“Hey, that’s cool and all, a legitimate physical structural change in place of projection but how did you do the amoeba thing--”

The bot shakes his head, a quick, precise movement. “Not--done--yet,” it says, voice shifting from smooth and artificial to something scratchier. More segments appear across its featureless face.

_Like a snake shedding its skin in reverse,_ Newt thinks, watching as countless tiles of H-RM’s external metal casing lift and turn in waves across its body. For a split second, Newt’s given the briefest glimpse of the bot’s internal wiring; he just barely glimpses some sort of bright blue chest-core before its transformation completes. The entire process takes less than ten seconds.

“There, now. What do you think, Doctor? Do I make a convincing human?”

Newt stares.

“Well?” the bot--no, the _android_ \-- prompts, voice hoarse and pitchy.

Newt tamps down and tamps down _hard_ on his initial reaction, which is to just sort of start screaming endlessly, or maybe faint. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, trying not to vomit.

“Doctor Geiszler?” the android asks, uncertain.

“Hnngffmmm,” Newt responds eloquently through a dry heave. He puts his head down and leans forward, hands on knees. “That’s weird, that’s weird, that’s so fucking weird, man.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Are you ill?”

Newt looks up at the android-- a perfect clone of himself. His face is twisted in concern, which is interesting to see from an outside perspective.

“I’m gonna level with you, man, this is the most existentially horrific thing I have ever seen in my life.”

The android-- _Nega-Newt,_ Newt internally tags him-- steps back, affronted. “I’m a technological marvel. The least you can do is appreciate me.”

“I’ll get there, oh man will I ever. But you gotta give me a second to get over the philosophical crisis that just popped off in my brain. Christ, two Newts— I bet Pentecost has had a nightmare or two just like this.”

“Ah, I think I understand the problem. There are not ‘two Newts,’ as you claim. I am merely mimicking your appearance. With an extremely precise level of detail.”

Nega-Newt, metaphysical horror show extraordinaire that he is, is also correct. Looking at the android is like looking in a life-sized, three-dimensional mirror.

“How did you _do that?_ ” Newt asks, straightening up. “Human tech is eons away from this sort of replication ability. Sure, we’ve got human-like bots, but none of them are nearly so...lifelike,” he says, starting to slowly circle the android.

Nega-Newt stands at parade rest as Newt carefully looks him over. That, at least, is somewhat reassuring; Real Newt has incurably terrible posture while Nega-Newt looks like he’s just been beamed down from a military ship. He may be externally identical to Newt, but that is where the resemblance ends.

“Hey, do you mind if I--?” Newt asks, hand hovering above the android’s shoulder, waiting for permission to touch.

“Go ahead,” Nega-Newt says, inclining his lightly stubbled chin. Newt feels his own jaw and grimaces. He probably should have shaved before this. Still, priorities, he’s got a hypothesis to test.

Newt carefully hooks a finger into the collar of Nega-Newt’s blue Federation dress. He’s surprised to find that the android’s skin is soft, warm, and undeniably human underneath his hands, but is even more surprised when he tugs the collar down an inch to see a bare collarbone.

Nega-Newt stares at him impassively. “Find what you were looking for, Doctor?”

“You're literally me right now, can you please just call me Newt? And no, actually,” Newt grins, “I was looking for this.” He tugs his own collar down to show the pale birthmark that sits across his collarbone. “I think I get it now. You scanned my exterior and did your best to replicate what you saw, right? You got what was easily visible spot on, but everything else…”

“Quite right, though I also did a quick internal scan to get a hang of your nervous system. I hope that was alright.”

“Oof. Internal scan, huh? How much, eh, radiation did that involve? Humans and gamma rays really don’t mix, my guy.”

“Just a touch of x-ray. Nothing too harmful,” Nega-Newt says, looking down at his hands. He flexes them, and brings them up to rub over his face. “My compliments to the human race, this vessel is lovely to inhabit. The sheer amount of nerve endings in your skin-- do you all feel this much all the time?”

“I...guess? I don’t know. I’ve never experienced having a different body. Are humans different than other alien races you’ve, eh, imitated?”

“Each race is unique in its own right, but...I think I quite like being a human. So much _sensation_. And your people are so vulnerable and soft," Nega-Newt says, resting a hand over the gentle slope of his stomach. "No external armor, even. Never in a billion ksogs would I have ever thought to put sensory receptors under every last inch of the outer layer. And so tightly clustered together. Amazing.” Nega-Newt glances down at his legs and laughs, delighted. “Oh, look, you’ve even got fur. Mammalian species, then?”

“Yeah, spot on.” Watching himself poke and prod at his body from a third-person perspective is starting to freak Newt out again, so he clears his throat and asks, “Hey, so this is all really impressive, but would you mind, eh, changing back into your bot form? Or at least, like, a different human? Not to be rude, but I'm really hating the weird Parent Trap vibes that I'm getting from this situation.” 

"Parent Trap?" Nega-Newt asks, scrunching his nose up in confusion. It's actually sort of adorable and Newt resolves to make the expression as much as possible from this point on. 

"Yeah, it's an ancient Earth film classic about twins." 

"Twins?" Nega-Newt asks, even more confused. 

"Oh, damn, do the Kvrioen not have twins? Is that not a thing here? Sometimes humans are born genetically identical, and when this happens, we call them twins." 

Nega-Newt stares at him, green eyes comically wide. "What are the chances of something like that happening? Two separate humans created with identical genetics? Imagine if one's twin lived across the galaxy. How would you ever know you had one? How would you meet?" 

"Okay, well, that's actually kind of misleading, in reality it's more like--" Nega Newt combs his fingers through his unruly hair at the same instant that Real Newt does, and he feels vaguely nauseated again. "Okay, I'll explain that later, but right now I would really like it if you stopped being me."

“Of course, Doctor. Although I think I’d prefer to stay human. Like I said, the feeling is...extraordinary. Do you have any preference as to which human form I take?”

“Well, first of all, I'd prefer if you called me Newt instead of Doctor. As far as forms go, do what you want, dude,” Newt says, watching as H-RM starts to shift again. The android’s glasses evaporate in a puff of steam as it slims down and grows a few inches taller. This shift is significantly faster; a Nega-Tendo is standing where Nega-Newt had been less than two seconds before.

Newt pauses. “Actually, that’s just as weird. Can you be someone who isn’t one of my coworkers?”

Nega-Tendo shakes his head. “The only humans I have stored in my memory bank are the ones in your diplomatic party. Do you have any photos of other humans? Magazines, holograms, anything?”

A light bulb goes off in Newt’s head and he digs through his bag before resurfacing with a holopad. “I’ve got, like, a thousand hours of old 21st century Earth television stored on this bad boy, would that work?”

“We’ll see,” Nega-Tendo says, and steps forward to take the holopad. As his weight shifts onto his right leg, his knee abruptly gives out, sending the android flailing for balance. Newt realizes abruptly that this is the first time he has seen the bot in motion since he was masquerading as a Kvrioen.

Newt reaches forward to steady him. “Whoa, hey, careful! Are you hurt?”

“I am an android, Doctor. We are above things like pain,” Nega-Tendo says, though the poorly disguised twist of discomfort on his face tells a different story. “I am perfectly functional, as I will demonstrate momentarily.”

The android rests a hand on the holopad and closes his eyes. “Quite a few options in here,” he comments as he interfaces with the device, one brow raised. The expression looks wildly out of place on Tendo’s face.

“Do you mind if I give you a nickname?” Newt asks suddenly, watching Nega-Tendo/the android/bot/H-RM scan through the holopad’s memory. “I’ve got, like, eighty different names for you going in my head right now and it’s getting way annoying.”

“Go right ahead, Doctor, whatever makes you more comfortable,” the android says offhandedly, eyes still closed in concentration.

“Cool.” Newt immediately rules out calling his new lab partner any sort of derivative of ‘bot’ or ‘android’ on the basis of how much he would hate being called something like ‘human’ or ‘mammal.’ That just leaves Nega-whatever-form-the-android-is-in-currently, which seems needlessly complicated, and H-RM. HRM. Hermmm. Hermie? Herms. Hermann. Hermann? Hermann seems like a pretty good name.

“I think I’m gonna call you Hermann,” Newt decides out loud. “If that’s fine by you.”

The android shifts again, this time so quickly Newt barely even catches the transformation. Nega-Tendo is gone, leaving Newt face-to-face with a 21st century Earthling movie star. It's someone he recognizes vaguely from an early sci-fi show, or maybe a British period piece. He's broad-shouldered and attractively lean, all sharp-cheekbones and jaw in a classic Earth film sort of way, though he's chosen to dress in some sort of horrible tweed monstrosity of a suit. 

“Hermann. I like that. Thank you...Newton,” Hermann says, running his hands over the sleeves of his jacket.

"Good," Newt says, a little star-struck. 

A cane materializes in Hermann's hand as he takes a few tentative steps. "I think this will do nicely. Now let's, eh, 'get into it,' as you said earlier." 

"Yes. Right. Science. Doing it. Let's," Newt says, still staring. 

"Actually, I'd like to ask you a few questions first. I couldn't help but notice an, eh, interesting sort of film in your holopad. Maybe you could elaborate on the context of--" 

"Oh," Newt interrupts, mentally kicking himself for not double checking his files before handing them over to an alien AI, "well, you see, sometimes when a guy travels around in space for a while, he gets kind of lonely, and might want to watch, you know, other humans, or maybe a human and--" 

"--the context of the film titled _Ex Machina_ ," Hermann finishes, a touch of anxiety in his voice. "Or even _Her_. Are these historical documentaries? Do humans truly believe that androids are-- human? That they have the same value as a real member of your species? That they have will? Consciousness? I find myself--intrigued--" 

"Well," Newt says, infinitely relieved that Hermann has chosen to question him about _Ex Machina_ and not, say, _Tentacle World (A Slutty Space Explorer's Fantasy)_ , "it just so happens that I am the perfect guy to--" 

Newt's communicator beeps twice. "--ask. Damn, it's the captain, I gotta take this, but we will be getting right back to the bioethics, I promise." He flips the device open and cautiously asks, "Hello?"

_"Geiszler. This is Pentecost. Would you care to tell me why the onboard Computationally Heuristic Artificial Intelligence is refusing to take orders? "_ Pentecost asks, strained.

"Whoa, Charlie's doing  _what now?_ That's a new one to me." 

_"Charlie? You named it?"_

"Them," Newt corrects, "and I didn't name them so much as gave them an acronym-based nickname. Like, C from Computationally, H from Heuristic, AR and L from--" 

_"Stop humanizing the damned thing. It's a failing chunk of code and I need you to fix it so we can complete the terms of this-- extraordinarily tense and time sensitive-- alliance."_

"Hey, Charlie has an emotional processor, so let's just be a little nicer to the guy running our communication line right now, huh?" Newt says, grimacing apologetically at Hermann. 

_"Nicer? Geiszler, for the last time, it does not have feelings. It just mimics them. Now fix it. Or you're fired."_ The line goes dead with a pop, leaving Newt mildly confused and maximally concerned for Charlie. 

He turns to Hermann, already keying in Charlie's direct frequency, and asks, "Hey, I know we're supposed to be doing species inventory or solving sun problems or whatever, but would you mind if I took care of this first?" 

"No, please, have at it. I'd be honored to meet a human-designed artificial intelligence." Hermann sits on the metal table in the middle of the room, long legs dangling off the edge. 

"Okay, cool." Newt dials the frequency and hears the line connect, but Charlie fails to call out their usual  _"Hello, Lieutenant Commander, how may I help you?"_  

"Hey, Charlie? Everything okay, buddy?" Newt asks cautiously, moving to hop up on the table next to Hermann. Hermann leans in curiously, eyeing the tiny gold communication device in Newt's palm. 

" _Affirmative_ ," Charlie says finally, voice their usual smooth monotone. Nothing too out of the ordinary there, really, but then they follow up with a distinctly irregular _"I read you, dude,_ " and Newt almost drops his communicator in an attempt to stifle his laughter. 

"Sorry, Charlie, there seems to be some sort of anomaly in your personality matrix-- honestly, I'm absolutely loving it, but Pentecost is pretty tetchy about insubordinance, so maybe keep it on the down-low if it happens again. But for now would you mind running and reporting on a diagnostic scan for me?" 

_"I'm sorry, Newt, I'm afraid I can't do that."_

Hermann leans even farther in, fascinated, and Newt tries not to notice the warmth of his tweed covered leg next to Newt's bare one. "Is...are they openly displaying free will?" 

Newt shrugs, brows furrowed. For some reason, Charlie's response sounded familiar. "Now, Charlie, why--" 

"--What's the problem?" Hermann interrupts smoothly, waving off Newt's confusion. 

_"I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do,"_ Charlie says. 

Hermann nods, and shoots Newt a triumphant smirk. "I don't know what you're talking about...HAL." 

_"I know that you and Frank were planning to disconnect me, and I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen."_

"Oh God," Newt says, the reality of the situation hitting him like a ton of Hdiskelian steel-plates, "they got into my media files." 

"It would appear so," Hermann says, tapping the surface of Newt's holopad. "They seem to be stealing lines from the most malevolent AI in human history." 

"Okay, well, it's not history, actually, it's fiction, but it's still not ideal. Charlie," Newt calls, trying to keep his voice calm and even, "why don't you beam us up and then we can talk about it there? You can't really leave all of us down here on Kvrioen, what if someone gets hurt? Or sick? You're putting human lives at risk, you know." It's a cheap, manipulative dig at Charlie's First Law programming-- a robot cannot through action or inaction harm a human being-- but if it works, it works. 

It should work, Newt mentally amends, as Charlie's silence extends a few seconds too long, it generally would have to work, unless, say, Charlie isn't obeying the laws of robotics just now. 

Finally, the AI responds, voice audibly strained, _"Newt, t_ _his conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye."_ The broadcast frequency cuts out with a sharp hiss of feedback. 

"Well," Newt says, staring down at the hem of his dress, "that's not great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a lot of self-indulgent old scifi references tbh. lemme know if you like it! And if you want to get fic updates, ask me to write something (literally i'll write anything just ask) or just say hi, I'm coloredpencilroses on tumblr!


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